


dismantle/repair

by thelittleone (beautybedamned)



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen, future!verse, university!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-07
Updated: 2008-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautybedamned/pseuds/thelittleone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely set in post-university years. Renji comes home in time for the Christmas season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dismantle/repair

Call this a prelude to a lifetime of you  
            - _Dismantle Repair_ , Anberlin

 

-

 

It had been some time since he had last set foot on this very court and much, much longer since he had last arrived with only the sleepy moon and the chill of the far-too-early morning to keep him company.

He dropped his duffel beside the bench, the sound of it barely denting the dense hush that covered the school premises like a thick blanket. Lifting his arms above his head, he quietly relished the feel of his loosening joints.

He was warm under his tracksuit, muscles already pliant from the jog that had spanned the distance between his parents’ house to his old high school. The weights were a familiar burden, naturally settling at his wrists and ankles as the pace of his breathing evened out.

Jogging along the beach at Hawaii had been different, the smell of the early morning air tinged with salt and sea spray. Here, the crisp chill of pre-winter invaded his lungs like that first, deep swallow of minted tea.

He finished fifty laps around the court some twenty-or-so minutes later. Not all that bad given that he had taken his time. Coming to a stop back at the bench, he bent down, fishing inside of his bag for the small towel he’d haphazardly stuffed inside.

He spent the next hour alternating between service practice and pitting himself against a wall, his body recalling the motions easily enough. Soon, his thoughts and his heartbeat fell into the familiar rhythm from years before, bringing him back to another time, another place.

 

On his first day at Rikkai, Yanagi Renji had decided that the cafeteria was far too crammed with people and far too full of noise. He had elected to take his lunch elsewhere, eventually finding a place at the base of a tree close to the Junior High tennis courts. The novelty of the new school had been in the lack of the familiar, in terms of sight, smell and sound. This new environment held much potential, he had thought, more than once. It was a challenge that had promised much.

A few minutes into his lunch, he had lifted his gaze to watch the figures beyond the wire mesh. A handful of upperclassmen were gathered on the bleachers. He had heard them calling out and cheering, and watching just then, he had realized that it was because of the two currently engaged in what he quickly deduced was an informal match. By the looks of it, it had been going on for quite some time.

By the time one of the upperclassmen – the one that had been sprawled lazily in the middle of one sub-group – had called out the score, Renji had already come to the conclusion that, despite the fact that the taller one was leading, it seemed that the shorter player was only biding his time.

The game ended at 5-7, had left Renji’s lunch half-eaten and forgotten on his lap while his wide-open eyes had followed the movements of the shorter boy.

We are the same age, he had thought then, his gaze narrowing until the briefly unguarded expression on his face settled back into a neutral look that betrayed none of the excitement that he felt at the prospect of a challenge. A challenge who was no older than himself.

From there, he had continued to watch as the boy and the upperclassman shook hands, their mouths shaping their mutual thanks for the game. When the boy wandered off to meet yet another figure waiting patiently by the gate, Renji dutifully packed up his food, picked up his bag and headed off to his next class.

 

“Renji.”

He looked up to see Marui paused by the gate, one hand loosely clutching a ring of keys.

“Bunta,” the former data-player straightened before walking over, one hand securing the cap of his sports bottle. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to believe Jackal’s email.” They clasped hands in greeting, held awhile, let go. “Imagine that. You, coaching.”

Marui Bunta chuckled, one hand lifting to run idle fingers through his hair. It was dark now, more auburn than the bright red of their schoolyard years. It made sense, Renji mused. As a member of the school faculty, there were more rules to adhere to.

“It suits you.” Renji allowed himself a brief smirk before he uncapped the bottle and took another sip to replenish himself. In response, Bunta simply made a face before he tilted his head to the general direction of their old clubroom, an invitation for conversation if Renji had the time.

“You know, I wasn’t sure if I was just seeing things when I caught sight of you playing over there.” Bunta spoke as they stepped inside. There was a different smell to the clubroom – not offensive, just new and old at the same time, though Renji suspected it was mostly because he had been away too long, and its presence had not been a part of his daily routine. “I hadn’t realized you were back, though I remember Sanada mentioning that you were coming home for the holidays.”

The labels on the lockers sported different names– Maeda, Higuchi, Amano, Tanaka, Shiyouji, Saitou – though it seemed his mind conjured up the image of other names, superimposing these over those that he scanned with only the barest hint of interest. He paused at one in spite of this, and his hand lifted almost of its own accord to set two fingers against the characters.

“Your brother plays?” Renji queried then, casting a glance over his shoulder as his former teammate resurfaced from the club moderator’s office, the small, cramped space separated from the rest of the clubroom by a door. Renji remembered then, that Seiichi had once told Genichirou to label with a paper sign that would read “Regulars Only” in the years that the three of them had been in charge.

“Hmmm. The youngest one.” Bunta mumbled in-between the slice of bread coated on one side with pink jam. The leg of a chair scraped along the wooden floor before the former tennis-tensai slumped down into the seat. “It’s his last year. My parents are giving him a bit of hell over it, since he should be concentrating on exams for university instead of playing games out in the sun.” He offered Renji the plastic bag that hung from his fingertips, translucent and half-full of packed sandwiches generously coated with strawberry jam. “Have you eaten? You probably haven’t. Sit with me a bit. I just need to get this stupid paperwork out of the way.”

There was a hint of mischief in Bunta’s voice and Renji couldn’t help but smile again before he replied in a mildly amused voice: “I am not going to do your work for you.”

“Drat.”

 

“He’s too cocksure of himself.”

“Admit it, you admire the fact that he had the balls to ask you for a match.”

A huff.

“The boy should learn to pick his battles. He does not have the stamina to keep up with me.”

The debate continued for the next five minutes, ending with Seiichi looking serene and studious behind a shiny new pair of prescription glasses while Genichirou packed away his newly washed bento into the worn, gray bag that he brought daily to school. The silence that followed lasted all of a minute and was broken when both boys turned to him.

“Renji, what do you think?”

The data-player looked up then, one hand tapping the rear of his pencil against his textbook’s open page. He had a quiz after lunch to see to, and though prepared, he found the need to review in his spare time. The last one had caught him by surprise and the score had not been what he had expected. “We could have him fill in our doubles slot. There is another player who might compensate for Marui.”

“I cannot see Marui in doubles, Renji.” Sanada murmured as he finished the contents of his thermos. “But who is this other player?”

“Kuwahara Jackal.”

“The quiet one?”

“He’s strong when it comes to defense.”

Yukimura’s eyebrows lifted and the captain-to-be pulled off his glasses, tucking it away in its case. The bell rang out just then, signaling the end of lunch period. “We must talk about this more. You might be onto something there.”

“Later,” Renji murmured as he rose from his seat. He moved slowly on purpose, with the intent to trail a little bit behind, but the weight of a hand came to rest on his shoulder and when he looked up he saw that his two friends had not yet gone ahead.

“Renji,” Sanada murmured. “You’ll do fine.” Beside him, Yukimura nodded. “It’s all right to doubt once in awhile, but at the end of things, you must know yourself and how you are only competing against the best that you can be.”

 

Later that afternoon, Renji stepped aside to allow three teenage girls to exit the coffee shop before he himself stepped inside. He didn’t have to look far to spot Jackal, whose smile was as warm as the drinks that the half-Brazilian handed over the counter.

“He’ll be finished in about ten minutes and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four now. Twenty-three.”

Renji stepped towards the cashier and slipped his hands out from his coat pockets. “Sadaharu,” he greeted his old friend. “You look well.”

“It is good to see you too.”

“This is the last place I expected to find you.” Renji unfolded his wallet then, fingers gently pulling out a bill. “Just tea, please. The chamomile will do.”

“Grande or Venti?” The former Seigaku data-player asked as his fingers punched in the order. “Contrary to popular belief, Renji, I can make drinks that don’t render people near-dead.” The light glinted a little off the man’s glasses seemed to punctuate the underlying amusement in the statement and Renji finally noted the _Coffee Master_ patch that graced on the apron that Inui wore.

A nod was his only reply. “Of course, of course. And Venti, please, thanks.” They didn’t chat, didn’t catch up – he knew that they both knew that that could wait for another time, and when Inui handed Renji the receipt, both men paused, taking a brief moment to regard each other.

“Thursday, are you free?”

“After nine, yes. I have to break in the trainees.”

“I wish them luck. I’ll see you then,” Renji murmured, stepping aside to make room for the next customer. Pocketing his receipt, he moved towards the counter to wait for Jackal and his drink.

 

Observing Jackal and Marui as they worked to become a formidable unit was something he had enjoyed. Both players brought something unique to their game – Jackal was slowly becoming a candidate for Rikkai’s best defensive player and Marui’s tricks on the court, while indeed fancy, did not sacrifice efficiency for flash.

“Bunta still needs to work on his stamina, but I heard from a reliable source that he’s spent some time in the home economics lab working on a little something to help him with his problem.”

Renji turned to Yukimura and noted that though the latter’s expression said nothing beyond that the second year captain was pleased with what he saw on the courts, the faint glint in his eye promised something more.

“I have a request for you, Renji.”

“All you need to do is ask, Seiichi.”

“I know.”

It was later that afternoon that Renji walked over to Kirihara Akaya to inform the younger boy that the captain had assigned him to create a special training regimen for their first year ace.

 

“We try to see each other at least once a year.” Jackal murmured halfway through the meal. They had settled into a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant not too far from the Starbucks where Jackal worked. The patronage was mixed – an elderly couple, a small family, some foreigners, a few students – and the place seemed more cramped than comfortable, but the soup was hot and the ramen was good.

“Niou’s a freelance consultant now, going from one company to the next advising mostly on this thing called Change Management.” The half-Brazilian continued as a second serving of food arrived at their table. They split the food with the ease of people who had known each other for a long time and who were used to this kind of sharing.

“I’m not sure if he’s back yet from his business trip, but I see him and Bunta the most. We make it a point ambush Yagyuu and Sanada as often as we can when we visit Tokyo, just to make sure that those two don’t kill themselves studying too hard.”

Still quiet and happy to let his friend’s words wash over him, Renji continued to watch as Jackal paused briefly to blow the steam from his spoon. “I mostly get calls and emails from Akaya – more calls than emails, as you can imagine.”

The spiel ended there and Renji sipped at his tea, letting a few breaths pass before he found his voice to speak: “I want to thank you, Jackal. For keeping me in the loop.” His voice seemed unsteady to him, though the tone was even, kind and outwardly sure. Renji smoothed a thumb over the rip of his cup, giving himself pause, opening a space in the conversation for Jackal to fill up once more. But the half-Brazilian simply regarded him with a look of quiet patience and so Renji parted his lips and lowered his gaze, and uttered what he had hoped to avoid saying:

“It seems I have… lost touch.”

Movement caught on his periphery and Renji looked up to see Jackal’s chocolate brown eyes focused and kind on his face. “It’s the distance, Renji.” The other man’s voice was soft. “It can cut off the best of us.” There was a pause between them, and then a sigh.

“At least you’re here now and can do something about it, right?”

Renji found himself nodding at that, though it was still so strange, so unsettling; to have gone from the one who had known about anything and everything on each and every one of them to the one who had left to go an ocean away; cut off save for what the internet could provide – email, digital pictures, an occasional video.

They had all kept in touch: Seiichi with his photo-blog of the trips he had gone on – Tuscany, Johannesburg, Tibet, Africa; Genichirou with the weekly emails that had replaced the weekend conversations that had been ritual for them both in high school. Jackal, of course – transcribed clippings of news on Akaya’s thriving tennis career, pictures and videos uploaded to free servers.

But he? He had all but drifted off and away. Perhaps it had been the distance, or life. Or maybe it had simply been that the sudden change and lack of being _there_ , where it mattered, had been something too alien for him to bear.

“We’re all catching up on the twenty-seventh.” Jackal told him right before they parted ways. “That’s a Saturday and school’s out, but Bunta has the keys and he’s bribed the guard at the main gate to let us through to use the indoor courts. Everyone will be around by then. You’re coming, of course.”

“Jackal, really.” He had chucked in response, waving his farewell before he jogged across the empty, sunset-lit street.

 

Two days after Christmas and it was like that last year of senior high all over again: Akaya and Niou were trading headlocks while Bunta scoffed at them both. Unfazed, Jackal simply ignored the terrible three in favor of catching up with Yagyuu while he rolled a tennis ball between his ankles as if it were a shrunken, yellow-green, fuzzy football.

“Sorry I’m late.” Renji looked up from his conversation with Seiichi – most of which had been him trying to decipher what exactly his friend was saying in French – to see Genichirou, business tie loose and hair quickly smashed under that old, worn cap.

“Stupid investors. I had to meet them for breakfast.”

Renji watched on as Sanada’s head snapped to attention, how those familiar eyes narrowed at the racket emanating from the other end of the room. And while Renji had no doubt that the once-formidable Vice-Captain was still formidable, it was hard to think that Sanada was capable of reprimanding the three noisemakers when he looked like he’d just come in from a gale.

“Sit down and relax.” Yukimura had smiled then, breaking the silence to draw the last third of their unit back to where he belonged. Renji noted how one lithe leg reached out to hook a foot on the rung of a nearby empty chair that was not too far from reach. “You look like you ran all the way here.” Yukimura commented once Sanada had sat himself down.

“And if I did?”

“Did you?” Renji asked, surprised at the incredulity of his own tone. When Sanada failed to respond, it was all the former data-player could do to delay the long bout of laughter that escaped him, each wave rolling out doubt and insecurity to make room for a light, happy feeling that expanded from inside his heart.

Later, when dark descended and his body ached, muscles singing from the strain of game after glorious game against these rivals, his best friends, Renji found himself playfully bumping his shoulder against a much taller, more grown-up Akaya who paused, startled, before smiling back, shoulders slouching as he chuckled out the words: “I’m glad you’re back, sempai.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Yanagi Renji Fic Exchange [http://willow-lotus.livejournal.com/2839.html].


End file.
